


Dance

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 02:03:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16734930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: You and Mick have to pretend to be interested in each other for a case, but are you both acting?





	Dance

“If you don’t relax, this is never going to work.”  Even as the words leave your mouth, your own body tenses as you playfully nudge the man beside you.  Things might be different if he wasn’t who he was. Your boss. The head of an organization big enough to change the way Americans hunt  _ forever _ .  The face of something instinctively too big to trust.  

 

You tell yourself these things are what make the difference, but in rare moments of honesty, you know it would help if you weren’t harboring the biggest crush on him.  

 

You don’t know what it is about Mick Davies that has you smitten.   His looks? His accent? The amiable personality beneath that slick charm he can turn on and off at will?  You try your best not to think about the sentiments that stir whenever you’re near him, let alone why they even exist.  They just do, and the only thing more nerve-wracking than pretending to be his date would be if you  _ were _ it. 

 

You can only imagine what makes this scenario difficult for him.  Naturally, you assume it’s you. While some women slink around with feline grace and seduction, you’re more like a sea urchin; intriguing, but covered in a whole mess of sharp edges that scream discomfort to anyone stupid enough to get too close.

 

Most men are able to pick up on that vibe and avoid you.  Unfortunately for Mick, he’s drawn the short straw between him and Ketch, and there’s no easy way out of this.  

 

As you sift through what you know of him, you realize you’ve only ever seen him interact with others professionally.  You could assume, given his ability to play the smooth talking man in a suit, he would be able to swing most things with ease.  The stiffness in his frame and perpetual tight pull of his lips suggest otherwise. 

 

“Right,” he mutters, eyeing you uncertainly.  The smile he attempts is painful and a touch panicked, like he’s trying to calmly stay in his seat while the entire building is burning down around him, and you don’t know whether to wince, laugh, or call the whole thing off. 

 

“Keep it up, and the next drink you get will come on a napkin with the message  _ do you need help  _ and instructions to  _ blink once for yes, twice for no. _ ”  

You make the mistake of telling him this as he’s downing the rest of his drink, and a choked sputter is all you receive.  You give him a moment to clear his airway, hiding your amusement with a hefty sip from your own glass. 

 

The bartender, seeing Mick’s distress, looks up from the beer he’s pouring, eyeing you both closely.

 

“You alright?”

 

You angle your body away from the man, your arm brushing Mick’s and sending jolt of awareness straight through you.  

 

“Just fine,” you say, patting your boss on the shoulder before rubbing it with a familiarity you in no way possess with him.  “Just went down the wrong way, right, babe?”

 

You tilt your head, allowing your hair to shield your face so only Mick can see it.  Your features become dark, your stare intent as you infuse as much of a warning you can into it.  Confusion laces his brow until you give him one long, deliberate blink, and it’s all he can do to smother a laugh with a final cough before flashing that brilliant, bureaucrat smile.

 

“Yes,” he echoes, some of the rigidness receding beneath your touch.  “What she said.”

 

He quickly finishes his very expensive, very potent drink, sliding it back down the bar.  “I’ll take another, please.” 

 

Your facade drops, brows shooting up, though you don’t argue.  The man  _ does  _ need to loosen up.  You just hope he’s not too loose if your target decides to make a move.  

 

You follow his lead, ordering round for yourself.  You match him sip for sip, watching the tension melt away as you venture into safe conversations.  The weather. The city. Another drink in has you sharing stories you haven’t thought of in years, finding moments of humor in mistakes that almost cost your life and painting warm tones over dark and lonely years.  

 

You don’t have to pretend when you lean a little closer, trying to catch his words as the live band in the background blares on, and he manages to relax enough to drape an arm across the back of your chair.  His body naturally turns toward yours, and the unspoken invitation has you lingering, eyes glancing up through lashes as you listen to him spin another intriguing tale about the British Men of Letters. 

 

It’s a subtle dance, between you and him, between your own emotions and what you’re here for.  You try to remember your objective, but it gets harder and harder not to get lost within the pretense.  The act may not be real, but the heat of his body is, and so is the electricity that sparks beneath his fleeting fingers that catch the back of your shoulder every now and then.    

 

You allow yourself to get caught up in him, to lean in that extra inch like you always want to.  To your surprise, you find him mirroring the movement, and as the night goes on, the space between you grows smaller and smaller.  By the time most of the crowd has left, he has his arm around you, your thigh pressed firmly to his. It isn’t until the bartender tells you he’s closing that either one of you realize how late it’s gotten.  

 

You’d known this moment would come, but it doesn’t make it feel any less like you’ve been doused with cold water as you reluctantly move away from him.  

 

“Guess it didn’t take the bait,” you mutter as you slide on your jacket, hopping down from the bar stool with a pout.  You’re not looking forward to returning to your hotel. Every night you’ve shared a room with Mick has been a long one, but this one carries the promise of eternity between now and morning.  

 

You’re in the process of frantically rebuilding walls when he slides his arm around your shoulder, unexpectedly drawing you against him.  Before you can react, he leans closer, your heart rate skyrocketing as his lips practically graze your ear. 

 

“Then tomorrow night we’ll just have to be more convincing, won’t we?”

  
  



End file.
